Incident of the Drunken Drover, Part 1
by Ash10
Summary: Sent into town to retrieve three stray cowhands, Pete Nolan comes to understand friendship can't always be counted on.


Boredom is the most common problem on a long trail drive. Coupled with loneliness it can be a combustible combination. For a trail boss it's hard to know when the drovers might reach a breaking point; sometimes the signals aren't so clear as a man might hope; sometimes he's just not payin' enough attention. On this drive I learned that the hard way. I'm Gil Favor, trail boss and if I've learned one thing pushing cattle it's that I haven't learned anything at all!  
  
"I'm beginnin' to think the boss made a mistake hirin' them three!" Wishbone muttered under his breath while he spooned stew onto Rowdy's already filled plate, angling his head to indicate those in question as they stood, heads together as always, filling their bellies with the cook's good food.  
  
"Hey, watch it, Wish!" Acting quickly, hoping to avert a nasty burn, Rowdy tipped the plate downward, causing the stew to slide out of the way of his fingers. "What's so wrong with them jaspers, anyway?" The ramrod stood off to the side while the cook dished supper to the next man in line, Joe Scarlet. "Far as I can tell they do their jobs okay."  
  
"They might do their jobs, but there's somethin' ain't right about 'em - sneaky they are, like they're thinkin' up devilment, heads together, whisperin'! Close as three snakes in a hole. I seen him sweet-talkin' Quince, too and you know Jim's easy to talk into things...sort a like Mushy that way...what they call gullible. Ain't it?"  
  
Wishbone slapped a ladle of stew down onto Pete Nolan's plate, splattering the scout's only clean shirt with gooey brown spots. Pete echoed Rowdy's earlier "Hey, watch it, will ya?" as he dabbed at the greasy stains with the only clean piece of cloth he owned - a handkerchief pulled from an inside pocket. "What's got you so riled up that you gotta take it out on me?" Pete put on a hurt expression, like a little kid blamed for something he didn't do.  
  
Instead of eliciting sympathy from the crotchety cook, the expression made Wish laugh which at least got him out of his mood, but Nolan's face burned in embarrassment. "Always the hind-end of the joke, ain't I? Well that's fine with me! That's just fine." Pete kept the hurt expression, taking coffee from Mushy and finding a seat off by himself. The pout lasted only as long as the first cup of coffee. By the second the scout was himself again, jawing animatedly with Hey Soos and Jim Quince, laughing and forgetful of Wishbone's unintended slight.  
  
"You pickin' on Pete again?" Gil Favor, last in line as usual, gave the cook what he hoped was a glare chilly enough to disguise the fact that he wasn't nearly as angry as he pretended. "Keep that up and he'll lose his good humor permanent and this drive can't afford that. We got enough owly drovers as it is."  
  
"Oh, I wasn't pickin' on him. He just got in the way a my bad humor's all!" Wishbone lowered his voice to where Favor had to lean down to catch the words. "Them three new hires - thick as thieves they are and up ta no good, I'll wager!"  
  
Favor matched Wishbone's conspiratorial whisper, "You a mind-reader now as well as a cook?"  
  
"Just mark my words, Boss. I warned you!" With a jerky nod of his head, Wishbone dropped two more biscuits onto Favor's plate. He didn't wait around for the boss's comment which was a good thing since none was forthcoming.  
  
With so much on his mind, Gil totally forgot the cook's solemn warning. Two drovers quit which left him short-handed while the rest of the crew grew more and more bored with their daily drudge; cattle, dust, wind, rain, monotonous although well-cooked food, no feminine companionship and no liquor. Their only recourse was a game of cards using Quince's dog-eared pack, sleeping or singing around the campfire with even that put on hold due to a broken string on Mushy's beat up guitar. Even Pete couldn't coax much of a tune out of it in that condition. Grumbling, growling and complaining, the drovers pushed on, mile after mile and day after exhausting day.  
  
---- Rowdy hemmed, hawed and stalled, knowing how Mr. Favor would take the news. Finally he just blurted it out. "Boss, thought you aughta know - some a the drovers took off during nighthawk."  
  
Favor stopped in mid-sip of the first taste of his first cup of morning coffee. To say he was not amused would have been the understatement of the day although he said nothing until the entire cup of hot brew was under his belt. Sighing, he turned to face the bearer of the bad news. "I'll just bet I can guess who and please do stop me if I'm wrong."  
  
Yates nodded, accepting a cup of coffee from Mushy.  
  
"Jim Quince." Favor paused briefly and then quickly rattled off the names of the three new men, "Howard, O'Neill and Bailey."  
  
"Uh, close, Boss, but no cigar; Quince, Howard and O'Neill. Bailey's helpin' Hey Soos with the remuda." Rowdy finished his coffee, tossing his cup into the bucket with the rest of the used dishware. "Town ain't so far. I'll be back with 'em by supper." The ramrod waited expectantly for Favor's okay, but the boss shook his head.  
  
"Not you, Rowdy. It's not that I don't trust ya, it's just...well, there's bound to be at least one pretty girl in that town who needs help and you're apt to find her. This job goes to Pete."  
  
Hiding his disappointment behind a shrug and a muttered, "okay, Boss," Yates walked off. Arguing with Favor when the boss's mind was obviously made up was only a waste of energy which Rowdy knew only too well.  
  
Nolan walked up and accepted a plate of breakfast from Wishbone. Having come in on the tail of the conversation, Pete appeared confused as to the nature of his involvement in the aforementioned job. Wishbone shrugged. "You'll like it, Pete. Trust me. Ain't a man on this drive wouldn't kill for a job like you're gonna get!"  
  
"I'm not sure but trustin' you scares me somethin' awful, Wish!" Nolan ducked the cook's back-handed attempt to whack him with the useful end of a metal flapjack turner, laughing as he walked over to stand next to Favor.  
  
"What's this I sorta hear about some job I'm just gonna love, Boss?" Nolan speared a hunk of fried egg, shoving it into his mouth and washing it down with a long gulp of the coffee handed him by Mushy. If there was anything the lanky scout enjoyed about a trail drive it was the food, decent and lots of it. Nolan's metabolism burned up everything he ate in record time, no matter what or how much so that whenever the chow bell rang, he was more than ready to take his place in line - several times if portions permitted.  
  
"Well if Rowdy's any judge...he offered to take on the job." Favor's expression remained noncommittal.  
  
"Rowdy? And you gave the job it me? Makes me feel sorta proud and uneasy at the same time; know what I mean, Boss?" Nolan glanced sidewise at Favor, his fork poised above the plate as he waited for an explanation.  
  
"I do know what you mean," Gil allowed, "but it's just a trip into town. Doubt that it'll be very pleasurable, though."  
  
"Why's that?" Pete followed the last of the eggs with a strip of bacon, his sixth, wiping the grease from his fingers off onto his chaps.  
  
"Strays don't often appreciate bein' pushed back onto the trail; especially when they've come across a nice deep waterin' hole. They're apt to get balky. Point 'em home; they don't wanna leave, it's your job to make 'em. Keep it friendly if you can, but however you do it, get 'em back here, Pete and do it fast. Daylight's wastin'."  
  
"Exactly which strays am I after, Boss?" Nolan exchanged his cleaned plate for a last coffee fill-up from Mushy.  
  
"Quince and two a the new men - Howard and O'Neill."  
  
"I'd be willin' to help Mr. Nolan round up them strays, Mr. Favor!" Mushy smiled engagingly, but not engagingly enough for Gil to allow him to tag along, possibly causing more trouble for Pete than the 'strays'.  
  
"MUSHY!" Wishbone's voice cut to the quick. "Your business is over here with these dirty dishes!"  
  
"Yes, sir, Mr. Wishbone!" Mushy returned, reluctantly, to work, but his wistful over-the-shoulder glance in Favor's direction did not go unnoticed.  
  
"Maybe next time, Mushy," Gil offered which put the cook's louse in a lighthearted mood the rest of that day and into the next.  
  
"Boss, I'd like to put in my two cents." Wishbone took Favor's empty plate and cup and passed them back to Mushy. "What I mean is - three men is a lot to send one after. Quince ain't usually too quarrelsome when he's had a few, but them others...Boss, we don't know nothin' about them and that might mean trouble. Send somebody along. Don't send Pete alone."  
  
"You think I ain't up to the job, well then just spit it out, Wishbone!" At Nolan's challenge, the cook added, "It ain't you, Pete...it's just...two against one ain't good odds. No offense meant."  
  
Understanding Wishbone's reasoning and appreciating the rather paternal concern, Nolan grinned, "None taken, but I believe I'll be okay goin' stag."  
  
"I agree, but if you ain't back by supper and herdin' three hung-over drovers...." Favor left the sentence open-ended, but Nolan understood - be back on time or there'd be hell to pay.  
  
"Boss, consider me gone!"  
  
---- The twenty-odd mile ride into town was uneventful aside from Nolan nearly missing the tiny berg altogether since it was no more than a wide spot in a narrow road. Locating the missing drovers in so small a place was a cinch. There was only one saloon; it being the most prominent building in town by way of having two stories instead of one and being painted the most atrocious brownish/purple, a color Pete once heard a lady mention as puce  
  
Tying up alongside the drovers' mounts, Pete pushed his way through the bat- wing doors and inside. The saloon certainly wasn't much to look at, but by the advanced drunken states of Quince, Howard and O'Neill, at least the whiskey wasn't watered.  
  
Quince was first to spot the scout, beckoning Pete over to the table. "Iffen it ain't my old friend, Pete! Sit down, Pete and pour yerself a short one!"  
  
Howard and O'Neill glared first at Quince and then at Nolan who stood beside the table, the latter not accepting the invite to sit. The two might be well on their way to drunken nirvana, but remained just sober enough to understand the appearance of the trail drive's third-in-command.  
  
"Why'd ya invite him over, fer? He's here ta take us back to Favor and all them bawlin' flea-bit steers! He ain't here for no socializin'!" O'Neill slammed the shot-glass down onto the table causing some of the amber liquid to slosh over the top. "Ain't that so, errand boy?" he sneered at Pete.  
  
Howard laughed, throwing his head back and exposing a set of brownish, broken off front teeth. He drank not only because he liked the taste of whiskey, but also because it dulled the chronic ache of bad teeth. "Yeah, ain't that so?" he echoed.  
  
Pete nodded. "Since we all know why I'm here, let's get movin'. I promised Mr. Favor we'd all be back home by supper and I mean ta keep to it."  
  
"Aw come on, Pete; just have a short one with us - fer ole time's sake!" Quince filled a relatively clean glass and handed it up to Nolan. "Jest one...to be friendly!" Jim grinned and Nolan accepted.  
  
"Just one," he upended the glass and downed the shot. It felt good going down, warm, warm and friendly, but one was enough. "Like the man said, I ain't here for socializin'. Let's go, boys."  
  
"Nah, we ain't quite ready yet." O'Neill pushed his full glass toward Pete, "One more for the road, Nolan." Unlike Quince, his voice held an edge. "One more, Nolan; be a pal an' join the party."  
  
"Yeah, join the party," Howard parroted, giggling.  
  
"Pete's right. We better be gettin' back. The boss'll be.."  
  
"Shut up, Quince and sit down!" O'Neill jumped from his seat and pushed Jim hard back onto the chair and nearly toppling both over onto the floor. Only Pete's quick action prevented it. The party was definitely over.  
  
"That's it! We're leavin'!" Pete grabbed Quince by the arm, pulling him from the chair and backing slowly away from the table. "We're all leavin'"  
  
"Like hell we are," O'Neill growled, but Howard laughed. "It's okay, Len. Nolan's right. It's time we leave. I'm tired a this dump anyhow." O'Neill gave his partner a dirty look, but Howard ignored it. "Let's go peaceable like."  
  
With a deep sigh and a last swallow from his glass, O'Neill rose from his chair. "If I'm goin', this is goin' too!" He grabbed the nearly full bottle of rye up off the table, throwing down four silver dollars. It was a very decent bottle of rye.  
  
Pete figured that so far things were going about as he expected - Quince stumbling along amiably, the other two just stumbling along, O'Neill tossing looks black as storm clouds at Pete every wobbly step from table to doors and out. Nolan didn't want to antagonize anyone so he kept his free hand away from his Colt, though he felt comforted by its solid presence against his hip.  
  
For some reason Pete couldn't fathom, Quince suddenly thought something just too funny for words. Laughing to split his sides, he slapped Nolan on the back, doubling over at whatever his foggy, whiskey-logged mind found so hilariously entertaining. Face red, eyes streaming tears, Jim had a bad time finding the stirrup, let alone pulling his wiry self up into the saddle of his skittish horse. Pete gave him a boost and for a brief instant wondered if perhaps it wasn't a good idea to tie Quince in. The thought was fleeting at best. So involved was he with Jim and so distracted by his antics, Pete never knew what hit him, literally.  
  
Stunned by a sharp blow to the base of his skull, Pete hung on to consciousness with stubborn tenacity. His knees buckled and he grabbed for Quince only succeeding in dragging the inebriated drover from the saddle, both men hitting the ground in a tangle of legs and arms. Still he hung on, but his senses were dulled. He could hear, but his sight was so dim it was like seeing through a gauzy veil and he had no control whatsoever of legs or arms; dragged to his feet and off the main street, he felt like a marionette in a puppet-show, supported by unseen strings.  
  
Howard's fetid breath was in his face, the stench of rotting teeth and whiskey a sickening combination.  
  
Behind him O'Neill's voice came slyly into his right ear. "You'll be sorry you was so unfriendly. Yer gonna have that last drink with us, errand boy." He jerked up painfully on Nolan's left arm, lifting the slim cowboy half off his feet. Pete felt something snap and pain shot from his wrist to his shoulder, clearing some of the fog from his brain, but not enough to do any good, only enough to bring the bleakness of the situation into clearer focus.  
  
O'Neill dropped Pete to his knees, one hand pulling up on the injured arm, the fingers of the other hand twisting in Nolan's hair, jerking his head back and up.  
  
"Have a drink on us." Howard forced the rye bottle into Pete's mouth, jamming it between his teeth, tearing up the soft insides of his mouth. With a vise-like grip around Pete's jaw, Howard held the scout's mouth shut.  
  
Sputtering, gagging and choking, Pete was helpless to prevent the torture. With every breath more whiskey flooded his lungs, some of it actually going down his throat or out his nose. He was a drowning man.  
  
"You're killin' him! What the hell you think yer doin'?" Jim Quince came out of his stupor and up off the ground, successful in tearing Howard away from Pete only after the fact. "You're killin' him!" Quince repeated.  
  
"He ain't dead, just full a good rye whiskey is all! Look it here! Damn selfish bastard drank the whole bottle!" Howard tossed the empty fifth aside, turned back to Nolan and slapped him full in the face. There was no reaction aside from a trickle of blood from the split lip. The scout's body hung limp in O'Neill's arms.  
  
Quince's reaction was to go for his gun. Never the fastest man on the draw, Jim's reaction time was slowed even further by drink. The pistol was knocked from his grip. Howard also removed Pete's weapon, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers. "Don't try nothin' like that again, Jimmy boy or I'm gonna fergit we're drinkin' buddies!" Let's get this errand boy up on his horse and started back to the boss man."  
  
Quince sat on the dilapidated boardwalk, head in hands, sick over his failure to help Pete. The desire was there, but not the fortitude. Whiskey stole that just like it stole every other decent attribute Jim possessed. Even now he watched without interfering as Howard and O'Neill tossed Pete over his saddle, Howard untying Buck's reins from the hitching rail and pointing the animal east out of town. O'Neill fired off a round from his pistol sending the terrified horse into a panicked run. How far he'd go without dumping the unconscious man from the saddle was anybody's guess. When the two bullies, laughing over their latest cruel prank, walked back up onto the sidewalk and through the doors into the saloon, Jim Quince willingly accompanied them. One more bottle and he'd forget all about trail drives, cattle, old friends and Pete Nolan, he hoped.  
  
---- In the black mood simmering just below the surface, it would take either a big fool or a brave man to approach Gil Favor.  
  
"Cup a coffee, Boss?" Mushy held the cup out at arm's length. He held it a good long time before Favor even looked up.  
  
"What's the time, Mushy?" he asked. Waiting for Mushy to fumble a dinged up watch out of his pocket while using only one hand, Gil took the pro-offered coffee, draining the cup. Mushy searched through several pockets using both hands, finally locating the time piece in the first pocket he'd checked.  
  
"Uh, it's 5:03...a.m., Mr. Favor," he beamed.  
  
Gil nodded. "That's twelve hours past the time I expected Pete and the drovers back."  
  
"What're ya gonna do, Boss?" Mushy refilled Favor's cup and backed away. There was still the chance of a possible explosion.  
  
Far enough to be out of the way of any backlash idled several of the drovers, awestruck into silence by Mushy's willingness to take such risks with, if not his life, then at least his job. Gil Favor's hair-trigger temper was legendary.  
  
Favor sat for several moments, staring at the ground, obviously deep in thought, ignoring the coffee, Mushy's question and his silent audience. Suddenly he shoved the cup, coffee and all at the surprised youngster and got quickly to his feet. "Mushy, saddle a horse and go find Rowdy. Tell him the herd is his till I get back Hey Soos! Saddle my horse. Put a rifle in the scabbard and hurry up!"  
  
After the brief flurry of activity, camp settled down to the relative normalcy of breakfast. Even Wishbone failed to comment on the boss's less than volatile leave-taking though it seemed the common, albeit whispered, consensus of all present that the big bang would come later, when Favor caught up to Nolan and the absent drovers.  
  
Locating the town wasn't too difficult once Gil found a high spot in the landscape. Locating Pete Nolan was easier yet. Less than a mile from town Favor came across Buckey, reins dangling free by his head, grazing some few yards off the road. Dismounting, Gil took the reins and tied the buckskin, along with his own mount, to a nearby bush.  
  
"Pete Nolan, so help me.." Favor muttered under his breath as he searched the area for the missing scout. Some hundred yards further up the road he found him. The stink of whiskey wafted over on the breeze and Gil felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise and his face flush in anger.  
  
Nolan lay sprawled on his belly and mingled with the whiskey stink was the stench of sweat and vomit. Reaching the body Favor grabbed Pete by the back of his shirt and hauled the scout relatively upright, dragging him over to a patch of grass not yet befouled.  
  
"I sent you out to bring three drunks back and what the hell do you do but out drink 'em!" Favor gave Nolan a rough shaking before dropping the unresisting form onto the ground. "Sonofabitch," he growled.  
  
Walking to his horse Gil removed a canteen, uncorking the stopper. Using the toe of his boot, he turned Nolan onto his back, meaning to douse the drunken man with water - a rude, but effective awakening. One look at Pete's face froze Gil to the spot. The canteen dropped from his fingers.  
  
Favor had seen men in various stages of drunkenness - roaring, falling down, three-sheets-to-the-wind and in a stupor. This, whatever state Nolan was in, was none of the above. He looked like a corpse what with his ashen complexion and swollen, bruised face. Imprints of a man's fingers were clearly visible at the jaw line - thumb on one side, fingers on the other. Blood trickled from the nose and mouth and when Pete opened his watering eyes to gaze blearily up at Favor, the whites were blood red; a freakish sight which made Gil recoil in horror.  
  
Without warning Pete coughed, not a normal sort of cough, but hard, forceful enough to break the vessels in a man's eyes and he turned onto his side and attempted to gain his knees. Gil grabbed him around the waist, supporting him while the wracking cough brought up a small amount of fluid from Pete's lungs, the smell easily recognizable as whiskey.  
  
Nolan collapsed onto the ground and Gil turned him onto his back. Untying his own bandanna, he soaked it in what was left of the canteen water, using it to gently clean the scout's face. He half expected the tears he blotted to consist purely of blood and was surprised when they were just tears. Pete moaned, turning onto his side and drawing his long legs up into his chest.  
  
"Who did this? Was it O'Neill and Howard?"  
  
"Yeah," The reply was a raw thin whisper.  
  
Going to the horses, Gil untied both bed rolls and grabbed Pete's canteen. Using the slickers he prepared a bed on the grass beneath the only shade tree within a mile. Lifting Pete's head to position a rolled blanket as a pillow, Favor's hand came away sticky with blood. The course of events came plainer and plainer to Gil.  
  
Nolan must've been outdoors all night since his clothes were clammy damp from dew; he shivered not only from the wet, but from the weakness and the sick. Favor took care when tucking the blanket in not sure if Pete had sustained other, hidden injuries.  
  
Removing Pete's neckerchief, Gil soaked it with water and folded it lengthwise into a narrow strip which he placed across Nolan's eyes. "I'm goin' into town for a doctor. I'll be back fast as I can." Gently, Favor patted the scout's shoulder. "You hear me, Pete? Pete?"  
  
"Don't turn your back on 'em, Boss."  
  
Favor drew his pistol and placed it on the blanket. "My Colt's here beside you...right close, if you need it. I got a rifle."  
  
Pete nodded. "Just watch your back," he repeated.  
  
"No worries there," Favor acknowledged.  
  
The first building at the edge of town was the doctor's office and Favor reined in and stepped down, saying a silent prayer the physician wasn't already out on an early call. He wasn't. While Gil filled the doctor in on what he believed had happened to his scout, the physician hurriedly filled a black satchel with what he figured to need.  
  
"I've got business in town; won't take more than ten minutes at most. I'll be back." Gil moved toward the door.  
  
"I'll be ready," the doctor replied.  
  
Like Pete, Gil spotted the saloon right off and in front of the saloon, three horses from the remuda. Pulling up short, he dismounted, tying his animal to the hitching post located in front of the building next door. "No use giving the bastards any advantage," he muttered.  
  
Slipping the Henry from the scabbard, he checked to be sure it held the full number of cartridges. With the rifle over his arm, Gil Favor stepped onto the boardwalk. In a way he hoped O'Neill and Howard would do something foolish so he could make them pay for what they did to Pete - right here and right now, revenge swift, sure and sweet. Another part of him hoped they'd simper and plead for mercy which he would give - let a judge and jury decide their fates, a good long stretch in jail to think about what they'd done or, heaven forbid Pete should die, a long drop and a short rope. In the end the choice would be theirs not Gil's and that was alright by him.  
  
Several men idled at the bar even though the hour could not have been later than nine. Several more sat at a table, heads down, either passed out drunk or asleep. Gil was about to find out which.  
  
Using the rifle as a prod, Favor poked Jim Quince in the ribs. Quince grunted once. Favor poked again, harder and Jim's head jerked up. "What the hell you doin', mister?" he croaked, glancing up and into Gil's face. "Boss?" he whispered.  
  
Favor noticed fear on Quince's face. Was it fear of retribution? Had Jim been in on Pete's beating or was it fear of his two cronies? Gil wasn't certain. As drunk as Jim still was, he probably wasn't certain himself. "You in on what happened to Pete?" Gil kept his own voice to a whisper.  
  
Quince shook his head. All color drained from his face.  
  
Perhaps he didn't have a hand in it, but Jim obviously knew what had happened. "Get up slow and easy. Back away from the table."  
  
Jim did as ordered while Gil brought the rifle to bear on the remaining drovers. "Wake up you bastards!" Favor fired a round from the Henry into the floor. O'Neill and Howard jumped as though they'd been shot through, O'Neill, in his haste and terror, toppled over backwards in his chair. Howard sat staring at Favor, a pool of urine collecting beneath him on the floor.  
  
Keeping his attention on the drovers, Gil called back over his shoulder. "You got a sheriff in this town, a constable or a marshal maybe?"  
  
"We got a constable. You want I should get him?" The bartender placed his apron onto the bar and walked around the near end, hands raised to show the tall man he carried no weapon.  
  
"I'd be obliged," Favor replied. "You, Howard and you, O'Neill shuck those pistols - toss 'em onto that table next to you and be quick. I got no patience left." Recognizing Pete's horn-handled Colt, Gil walked over, rifle at the ready, and picked it up, dropping it into the empty holster at his waist. Seeing Quince's .44 among the collection as well, he helped himself, tucking it into his belt as he calmly backed away.  
  
"We didn't do nothin', Favor! You got some nerve comin' in here, scarin' folks half ta death.." whined O'Neill.  
  
"You knocked Pete Nolan senseless and poured enough whiskey down his throat to half kill him. You call that nothing?"  
  
"Aw, we was only funnin'. Ask Jim Quince...he was there! If we was hurtin' Nolan don't 'cha think his friend Quince woulda stepped in? Don't 'cha, huh?" O'Neill stared straight at Jim, daring him to speak, daring him to confess that he'd done nothing to stop the torture. "Go ahead, Jimmy boy, tell the boss.we was only funnin'" O'Neill winked slyly.  
  
Quince took a step backwards. His mind reeled in confusion. He'd been drunk last night, but not nearly drunk enough to forget. Even another full bottle afterwards couldn't wash away the ugly memories and uglier knowledge of his failure to act. "I'll tell 'im, sure I will, O'Neill. I'll tell Mr. Favor the truth - all of it. Maybe I won't sleep nights from now on, but I'll feel cleaner knowin' you'll pay too for what you did, you and Howard!"  
  
Jim looked over at Favor, purposely meeting his stony gaze. "They did exactly like you said, Mr. Favor; hit Pete with a pistol butt. Forced whiskey down his throat till I figured he'd drown. I tried to stop it, but not hard enough, I reckon. I didn't hurt Pete, but I didn't help neither and it's all the same to me. I ain't no better than them."  
  
Tears coursed down Jim's whiskered face, dripping from his chin, but for now his show of remorse did nothing to soften Favor's heart. When the constable walked over to take custody of the prisoners, Gil handed over all three drovers. "After I hear what the doctor says about my scout's condition, I'll be back to press proper charges."  
  
A narrow buckboard stood hitched and ready to go, the doctor seated, puffing contentedly away on his pipe, waiting patiently for Favor's return. Doctors spent long hours waiting - for babies to be born, for patients to show up, for folks to die - it was part of parcel of the job and universally accepted. Placing the pipe in the corner of his mouth, the doctor picked up the reins giving them a sharp snap. The men exchanged no words as Gil led the way out of town.  
  
Pete had moved but slightly being too weak to do more than shift his body into a less uncomfortable position. Everything hurt, but especially his head, stomach and wrist. Since coughing up most of the fluid from his lungs, breathing came easier. Inadvertently, when Howard and O'Neill slung him, belly down, over the saddle, they'd placed him in a position where fluid naturally drained due to the pressure of body weight against lungs and the effect of gravity.  
  
Hearing a voice he did not recognize Nolan just naturally assumed the worst. He went for the pistol the boss had left. It was easily removed from his grasp before any damage was done.  
  
"It's okay, Pete, it's just me. I brought the doctor." Favor knelt at Nolan's side, removing the still damp compress from the scout's eyes. When Pete blinked them open, Gil was disappointed to see the broken blood vessels had not diminished in the least.  
  
Checking the eyes for signs of brain damage, the doctor found the pupils unequal. "You got a nasty crack on the head and a mild concussion, at the least." Feeling around the back of Pete's head, he located the site of impact. "I'll clean that up in a minute. First I need to see what else you've got going on here." He found lacerations to the inside of the mouth, two loose teeth which would probably reset themselves in time, one chipped tooth, numerous bruises, a broken left wrist and what might have been deadly alcohol poisoning.  
  
"When a man shows signs of inebriation this many hours after ingesting the alcohol, it points to an amount well over the limitations of the body, especially when that body has been attempting to rid itself of the excess for most of that time."  
  
"So what you're saying is, Pete coulda died. Is he still in danger?" Favor rocked back on his haunches, his expression serious, worried.  
  
Before answering the physician took out a stethoscope and laid it against Pete's chest, beneath his opened shirt. For several moments he moved the instrument back and forth between the lungs, listening intently. Eventually satisfied, he removed the ear pieces, folded the instrument and replaced it in his satchel. "You say he coughed up fluid, whiskey. According to the sounds I heard, the lungs are now relatively clear and that's good. However, when anything foreign is introduced into the lungs some remains; often it's enough to trigger pneumonia. As you probably are aware, pneumonia in itself is life threatening. So in answer to your question, yes, Pete is still in danger."  
  
As if in answer, the patient groaned, rolling onto his side and drawing his legs up. His belly ached and the nausea kept coming, wave-like, cresting before rolling away. If he could resist the crest, a dip would follow and the sick feeling would pass. This was easier without an audience and the distractions of being poked, prodded and made to lie still. Pete groaned again.  
  
The doctor searched his black bag. Locating a small brown bottle he uncorked it, pouring some of the liquid into the spoon. "Hold his head up for me."  
  
Gil looked skeptical, though he followed orders, lifting Pete's head and shoulders up onto his lap. "He's sick at his stomach. Won't that make it worse?"  
  
"If he can hold this down, if even for a moment, the nausea will pass." He placed the spoon to Pete's lips, but the patient wasn't having any part of it. He turned his head to the side.  
  
"I can't," he groaned.  
  
"What if I promised that if you took this small amount, your stomach would stop spasming and the nausea would pass?"  
  
Nolan opened his blood-shot eyes a bare crack, "Promise?"  
  
"Promise," the doctor concurred.  
  
With bravery born of desperation, Pete opened his mouth. The medicine tasted vile, but he'd chance anything to keep his stomach down where it belonged. Naturally the fluid wanted to retreat, but Nolan held his ground and his stomach firmly in check. Almost within seconds of ingesting the medication, the cramps and sick feeling lessened. To Favor, watching and waiting for results, it was almost miraculous. To the doctor it was a miracle of modern science.  
  
He extended the bottle to Gil. "Paregoric," he announced, taping the cork tightly back in. "Mostly it's liquid opium, camphorated tincture of opium to be exact, but it works wonders on baby's colic and severe stomach upsets; calms the organ down, breaks the cycle of spasms. Once the cycle is broken, no more colic, no more spasms."  
  
"Will wonders never cease?" Gil smiled, resting Pete's head back onto the pallet. His color wasn't better, but he was definitely more relaxed and in less discomfort.  
  
"In a couple hours, I'll dose him again, just to make certain the cycle is truly broken. He needs to replace the fluids he lost and quickly if we're to offset any further complications, like pneumonia. He also needs to get his strength back. To accomplish both, he needs to keep liquids down."  
  
Setting the broken wrist was a fierce sharp pain but quickly over and nothing compared to the night Pete had spent during which he was certain death was at hand. There were times during that never-ending hell that death would have been preferable to the interminable agony. For the first time since the nightmare had begun, he felt himself drifting off, but the boss had other plans.  
  
"Before you sleep, I need an answer to a question." Favor was loath to keep the scout awake, but the answer would take only a moment and the information was important.  
  
Pete nodded.  
  
"Did Jim Quince have anything to do with what happened, anything at all?" Gil bent low, not wanting to misread an answer or miss a crucial word.  
  
"I put Jim up onto his saddle. Somebody hit me from behind. After that things went fuzzy." Nolan paused, searching through foggy thoughts for the truth. "I heard Jim yell, but can't recall the words. After that there's nothing. Was Jim a part a what happened?" Pete shook his head slowly, mindful of the ache. "No. Quince never hurt me. I'm sure."  
  
"Did he help?" Favor coaxed.  
  
Nolan replied with a hint of disappointment in a weary voice, "He yelled. Other than that I can't recall. Sorry, Boss."  
  
"That's okay, Pete, take it easy now."  
  
Gil trailed alongside the buckboard, partly to keep a watchful eye on Nolan, sleeping somewhat fitfully in the back; 'probably full a nightmares,' he reckoned, 'and why not,' and partly taking time to think through a decision he would soon be forced to make.  
  
Sitting at the constable's neatly arranged desk, Gil Favor methodically wrote out his deposition which would give the circuit judge his statement of the facts without the need of his physical presence in the courtroom, as well as his formal charges against the accused men. Applying his signature with a flourish to both documents, Gil raised his right hand and swore under oath to the lawman as to the truth contained therein.  
  
"When the victim is feeling up to it, I'll drop by for his sworn statement. Already got one from your other drover," the constable leafed through the papers he held, pulling Jim Quince's from the stack. "Didn't seem quite sure if he was guilty of anything or not, but his story jibes with yours, Mr. Favor. I'll release him into your custody, no charges. What with the statement of the victim, those two," he indicated the separate cells where O'Neill and Howard cooled their heels, their snoring obnoxiously loud and disturbing, "won't be seein' the light a day for some years. Attempted murder's not taken lightly in these parts."  
  
Placing the papers down on the desk, the constable took the key ring from the desk drawer. Gil followed him to the cell which held Jim Quince. In contrast to the snoring dead-to-the-world demeanor of his former drinking companions, Quince laid on the bare slats of the bed, arms folded beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. Not even when the key turned in the lock did he react. It took the boss's voice to get a rise out of him. "Come on, Quince. We're leaving."  
  
Jim's eyes were very nearly as blood shot as Pete's; they were also swollen and puffy but for a different reason. Embarrassed, Quince wiped the tears back across his cuff and got to his feet. Jim asked no questions, following silently behind Favor.  
  
Once outside, Gil turned to Quince, handing him back his pistol. "I need to stop in at the doctor's to check on Pete. You wait outside."  
  
Jim nodded. "Don't expect he'd want ta see me," he reasoned.  
  
"That's between you and Pete and now's not the time. He's pretty sick."  
  
Quince put a hand on Favor's sleeve causing the tall man to turn around. "He's gonna be awright then?"  
  
Seeing the hope in Jim's face, Gil wanted to say yes, but knowing there was a chance the wiry drover might have checked the assault on Nolan and didn't, for whatever reason, nearly pushed Favor's hard held patience over the edge. Swallowing bitter anger he replied truthfully, "he should be okay."  
  
At the news, Quince sort of shrank into himself, shoulders rounding, head down on chest, his relief at hearing the news nearly overwhelming the slim, trembling form. He whispered something under his breath which Gil didn't catch. He didn't ask that it be repeated.  
  
---- Back on the trail some eight days after Gil's decision to send Pete Nolan off to retrieve the absent drovers and to some it felt like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The 'some' referred to Mushy alone. He delighted in the sameness of things, the routine and since Mr. Favor, Mr. Nolan and Mr. Quince were all back home, so to speak, the cook's louse was happy indeed.  
  
Boredom had been eliminated. What with three of the four top hands in the outfit gone and all the slack to be taken up, there was no time to either be bored or to reflect upon the being of it. One problem eliminated; a hundred to go.  
  
Aside from the sling supporting Nolan's broken wrist, he looked fine, but thin, his appetite not yet what it used to be. Wishbone catered to his needs - lots of soups, teas of various sorts, milk and milk puddings, though not to his wants. Pete would've liked nothing better than a thick steak swimming in gravy and topped with golden mushrooms, but his stomach balked. The time would come again when he'd take his place in the chow line with the rest, elbowing for position and seconds, just not for a while.  
  
As for Wishbone's dire warning about the three new hires - although he'd been correct about two, the third man turned out to be a fine hand and an all around nice fellow once the pair of chief obstacles to his good guy status was out of the way. With that in mind, Wish made a concerted effort NOT to gloat to the boss over his omniscient abilities. And although it bothered him something fierce to keep silent concerning his righteous concerns over Pete taking on two men of such dubious character, in the end he let that, too, pass without comment.  
  
Gil Favor seemed his old self, barking orders and taking names, but something wasn't quite right. His attitude toward the men had changed if only slightly, like he wasn't sure of them, their loyalty, their devotion to the job at hand, to him and to each other. He assumed it was his problem alone, but anything that affected the boss, affected the men.  
  
But it was in Jim Quince where changes were most noticeable. Usually social and outgoing, he now preferred the company of his old compadre, Joe Scarlet, to all others. He avoided Pete Nolan at all cost, riding a mile out of his way so not to come within shouting range of the scout. If Pete was having a meal, Quince missed one. It wasn't that Jim believed Pete was angry over what had happened or even that Nolan blamed him for not stepping in; Jim was embarrassed to face the man, unable to look Pete in the eye without feeling pangs of bitter remorse and guilt.  
  
If embarrassment, remorse and guilt weren't an unholy enough trio to bear, Jim tacked on hate for good measure. He hated himself for a weak-willed addiction to the bottle wherein morals and friendship drowned alongside honor and responsibility. Perhaps time would heal his invisible wounds just as it was healing Pete Nolan's visible ones. The only man to know that for certain was Jim Quince and he wasn't talking.  
  
END, part 1 


End file.
